THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


POEMS. 


ALNWICK    CASTLE, 


W  I  T  H     OTHER 


POEMS. 


NEW- YORK: 
GEORGE    DEARBORN,    PUBLISHER, 


No.   38   GOLD    STREET. 


MD  CCC  XXXVI. 


[Entered  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress  of  the  United  States  of  America,  December 
9,  1835,  by  George  Dearborn,  in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  Southern  District  of 
New-York.] 


SCATCHERU  &  ADAMS, 

PRINTERS, 

38  Gold  Street. 


6 


POEMS. 


ALNWICK  CASTLE.1 


HOME  of  the  Percy's  high-born  race, 

Home  of  their  beautiful  and  brave, 
Alike  their  birth  and  burial  place, 

Their  cradle,  and  their  grave  ! 
Still  sternly  o'er  the  castle  gate 
Their  house's  Lion  stands  in  state, 

As  in  his  proud  departed  hours ; 
And  warriors  frown  in  stone  on  high, 
And  feudal  banners  "flout  the  sky" 

Above  his  princely  towers. 


10  ALNWICK    CASTLE. 

A  gentle  hill  its  side  inclines, 

Lovely  in  England's  fadeless  green, 
To  meet  the  quiet  stream  which  winds 

Through  this  romantic  scene 
As  silently  and  sweetly  still, 
As  when,  at  evening,  on  that  hill, 

While  summer's  wind  blew  soft  and  low, 
Seated  by  gallant  Hotspur's  side, 
His  Katherine  was  a  happy  bride, 

A  thousand  years  ago. 

Gaze  on  the  Abbey's  ruined  pile : 

Does  not  the  succouring  Ivy,  keeping 
Her  watch  around  it,  seem  to  smile, 

As  o'er  a  loved  one  sleeping  ? 
One  solitary  turret  gray 

Still  tells,  in  melancholy  glory, 
The  legend  of  the  Cheviot  day, 

The  Percy's  proudest  border  story. 
That  day  its  roof  was  triumph's  arch ; 

Then  rang,  from  aisle  to  pictured  dome, 
The  light  step  of  the  soldier's  march, 

The  music  of  the  trump  and  drum ; 


ALNWICK    CASTLE.  11 

And  babe,  and  sire,  the  old,  the  young, 
And  the  monk's  hymn,  and  minstrel's  song, 
And  woman's  pure  kiss,  sweet  and  long, 
Welcomed  her  warrior  home. 

Wild  roses  by  the  Abbey  towers 

Are  gay  hi  their  young  bud  and  bloom  : 
They  were  born  of  a  race  of  funeral  flowers 
That  garlanded,  in  long-gone  hours, 

A  Templar's  knightly  tomb. 
He  died,  the  sword  in  his  mailed  hand, 
On  the  holiest  spot  of  the  Blessed  Land, 

Where  the  Cross  was  damped  with  his  dying  breath ; 
When  blood  ran  free  as  festal  wine, 
And  the  sainted  air  of  Palestine 

Was  thick  with  the  darts  of  death. 

Wise  with  the  lore  of  centuries, 

What  tales,  if  there  be  "  tongues  in  trees," 

Those  giant  oaks  could  tell, 
Of  beings  born  and  buried  here ; 
Tales  of  the  peasant  and  the  peer, 
Tales  of  the  bridal  and  the  bier, 


12  ALNWICK    CASTLE. 

The  welcome  and  farewell, 
Since  on  their  boughs  the  startled  bird 
First,  in  her  twilight  slumbers,  heard 

The  Norman's  curfew-bell. 

I  wandered  through  the  lofty  halls 

Trod  by  the  Percys  of  old  fame, 
And  traced  upon  the  chapel  walls 

Each  high,  heroic  name, 
From  him2  who  once  his  standard  set 
Where  now,  o'er  mosque  and  minaret, 

Glitter  the  Sultan's  crescent  moons  ; 
To  him  who,  when  a  younger  son,3 
Fought  for  King  George  at  Lexington, 

A  Major  of  Dragoons. 


That  last  half  stanza — it  has  dashed 
From  my  warm  lip  the  sparkling  cup  ; 

The  light  that  o'er  my  eye-beam  flashed, 
The  power  that  bore  my  spirit  up 

Above  this  bank-note  world — is  gone  ; 

And  Alnwick's  but  a  market  town, 


ALNWICK    CASTLE.  13 

And  this,  alas  !  its  market  day, 
And  beasts  and  borderers  throng  the  way  ; 
Oxen,  and  bleating  lambs  in  lots, 
Northumbrian  boors,  and  plaided  Scots, 

Men  in  the  coal  and  cattle  line ; 
From  Teviot's  bard  and  hero  land, 
From  royal  Berwick's  beach  of  sand, 
From  Wooller,  Morpeth,  Hexham,  and 

Newcastle-upon-Tyne. 

These  are  not  the  romantic  times 
So  beautiful  in  Spenser's  rhymes, 

So  dazzling  to  the  dreaming  boy  : 
Ours  are  the  days  of  fact,  not  fable, 
Of  Knights,  but  not  of  the  Round  Table, 

Of  Bailie  Jarvie,  not  Rob  Roy: 
'Tis  what  "  our  President,"  Munro, 

Has  called  "  the  era  of  good  feeling  :  " 
The  Highlander,  the  bitterest  foe 
To  modern  laws,  has  felt  their  blow, 
Consented  to  be  taxed,  and  vote, 
And  put  on  pantaloons  and  coat, 

And  leave  off  cattle-stealing  : 


14  ALNWICK    CASTLE. 

Lord  Stafford  mines  for  coal  and  salt, 
The  Duke  of  Norfolk  deals  in  malt, 

The  Douglas  in  red  herrings  ; 
And  noble  name,  and  cultured  land, 
Palace,  and  park,  and  vassal  band 
Are  powerless  to  the  notes  of  hand 

Of  Rothschild,  or  the  Barings. 

The  age  of  bargaining,  said  Burke, 
Has  come  :  to-day  the  turbaned  Turk, 

(Sleep,  Richard  of  the  lion  heart ! 

Sleep  on,  nor  from  your  cearments  start,) 
Is  England's  friend  and  fast  ally; 

The  Moslem  tramples  on  the  Greek, 
And  on  the  Cross  and  altar  stone, 
And  Christendom  looks  tamely  on, 

And  hears  the  Christian  maiden  shriek, 
And  sees  the  Christian  father  die  ; 

And  not  a  sabre  blow  is  given 

For  Greece  and  fame,  for  faith  and  heaven, 
By  Europe's  craven  chivalry. 


ALNWICK    CASTLE.  15 

You'll  ask  if  yet  the  Percy  lives 

In  the  armed  pomp  of  feudal  state  ? 
The  present  representatives 

Of  Hotspur  and  his  "  gentle  Kate," 
Are  some  half-dozen  serving  men, 
In  the  drab  coat  of  William  Penn  ; 

A  chambermaid,  whose  lip  and  eye, 
And  cheek,  and  brown  hair,  bright  and  curling, 

Spoke  nature's  [aristocracy; 
And  one,  half  groom  half  seneschal, 
Who  bowed  me  through  court,  bower,  and  hall, 
From  donjon-keep  to  turret  wall, 
For  ten-and-sixpence  sterling. 


MARCO  BOZZARIS.4 


AT  midnight,  in  his  guarded  tent, 

The  Turk  was  dreaming  of  the  hour 
When  Greece,  her  knee  in  suppliance  bent, 

Should  tremble  at  his  power  : 
In  dreams,  through  camp  and  court,  he  bore 
The  trophies  of  a  conqueror ; 

In  dreams  his  song  of  triumph  heard ; 
Then  wore  his  monarch's  signet  ring : 
Then  pressed  that  monarch's  throne, — a  king ; 
As  wild  his  thoughts,  and  gay  of  wing, 

As  Eden's  garden  bird. 

At  midnight,  in  the  forest  shades, 
Bozzaris  ranged  his  Suliote  band, 

True  as  the  steel  of  their  tried  blades, 
Heroes  in  heart  and  hand. 


MARCO    BOZZARIS.  17 

There  had  the  Persian's  thousands  stood, 
There  had  the  glad  earth  drunk  their  blood 

On  old  Platsea's  day  ; 
And  now  there  breathed  that  haunted  air 
The  sons  of  sires  who  conquered  there, 
With  arm  to  strike,  and  soul  to  dare, 

As  quick,  as  far  as  they. 

An  hour  passed  on — the  Turk  awoke ; 

That  bright  dream  was  his  last ; 
He  woke — to  hear  his  sentries  shriek, 
"To  arms !  they  come !  the  Greek!  the  Greek!" 
He  woke — to  die  midst  flame,  and  smoke, 
And  shout,  and  groan,  and  sabre  stroke, 

And  death  shots  falling  thick  and  fast 
As  lightnings  from  the  mountain  cloud ; 
And  heard,  with  voice  as  trumpet  loud, 

Bozzaris  cheer  his  band : 
"  Strike — till  the  last  armed  foe  expires ; 
Strike — for  your  altars  and  your  fires  ; 
Strike — for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires  ; 

God — and  your  native  land  !  " 


18  MARCO    BOZZARIS. 

They  fought — like  brave  men,  long  and  well; 

They  piled  that  ground  with  Moslem  slain ; 
They  conquered — but  Bozzaris  fell, 

Bleeding  at  every  vein. 
His  few  surviving  comrades  saw 
His  smile  when  rang  then*  proud  hurrah, 

And  the  red  field  was  won ; 
Then  saw  in  death  his  eyelids  close 
Calmly,  as  to  a  night's  repose, 

Like  flowers  at  set  of  sun. 

Come  to  the  bridal  chamber,  Death ! 

Come  to  the  mother's,  when  she  feels, 
For  the  first  time,  her  first-born's  breath ; 

Come  when  the  blessed  seals 
That  close  the  pestilence  are  broke, 
And  crowded  cities  wail  its  stroke ; 
Come  in  consumption's  ghastly  form, 
The  earthquake  shock,  the  ocean  storm ; 
Come  when  the  heart  beats  high  and  warm, 

With  banquet-song,  and  dance,  and  wine  ; 


MARCO    BOZZAUIS.  19 

And  thou  art  terrible — the  tear, 
The  groan,  the  knell,  the  pall,  the  bier ; 
And  all  we  know,  or  dream,  or  fear 
Of  agony,  are  thine. 

But  to  the  hero,  when  his  sword 

Has  won  the  battle  for  the  free, 
Thy  voice  sounds  like  a  prophet's  word ; 
And  in  its  hollow  tones  are  heard 

The  thanks  of  millions  yet  to  be. 
Come,  when  his  task  of  fame  is  wrought — 
Come,  with  her  laurel-leaf,  blood-bought — 

Come  in  her  crowning  hour — and  then 
Thy  sunken  eye's  unearthly  light 
To  him  is  welcome  as  the  sight 

Of  sky  and  stars  to  prisoned  men : 
Thy  grasp  is  welcome  as  the  hand 
Of  brother  in  a  foreign  land ; 
Thy  summons  welcome  as  the  cry 
That  told  the  Indian  isles  were  nigh 


MARCO    BOZZARIS. 

To  the  world-seeking  Genoese, 
When  the  land  wind,  from  woods  of  palm, 
And  orange  groves,  and  fields  of  balm, 

Blew  o'er  the  Haytian  seas. 

Bozzaris  !  with  the  storied  brave 

Greece  nurtured  in  her  glory's  time, 
Rest  thee — there  is  no  prouder  grave, 

Even  hi  her  own  proud  clime. 
She  wore  no  funeral  weeds  for  thee, 

Nor  bade  the  dark  hearse  wave  its  plume, 
Like  torn  branch  from  death's  leafless  tree, 
In  sorrow's  pomp  and  pageantry, 

The  heartless  luxury  of  the  tomb  : 
But  she  remembers  thee  as  one 
Long  loved,  and  for  a  season  gone  ; 
For  thee  her  poet's  lyre  is  wreathed, 
Her  marble  wrought,  her  music  breathed ; 
For  thee  she  rings  the  birth-day  bells ; 
Of  thee  her  babes'  first  lisping  tells : 
For  thine  her  evening  prayer  is  said 
At  palace  couch,  and  cottage  bed ; 


MARCO    BOZZARIS.  21 

Her  soldier,  closing  with  the  foe, 
Gives  for  thy  sake  a  deadlier  blow  ; 
His  plighted  maiden,  when  she  fears 
For  him,  the  joy  of  her  young  years, 
Thinks  of  thy  fate,  and  checks  her  tears : 

And  she,  the  mother  of  thy  boys, 
Though  in  her  eye  and  faded  cheek 
Is  read  the  grief  she  will  not  speak, 

The  memory  of  her  buried  joys, 
And  even  she  who  gave  thee  birth, 
Will,  by  their  pilgrim-circled  hearth, 

Talk  of  thy  doom  without  a  sigh : 
For  thou  art  Freedom's  now,  and  Fame's ; 
One  of  the  few,  the  immortal  names, 

That  were  not  born  to  die. 


BURNS. 


TO    A    ROSE,     BROUGHT    FROM    NEAR    ALLOWAY    KIRK,    IN 
AYRSHIRE,   IN    THE    AUTUMN    OF    1822. 


WILD  ROSE  of  Alloway !  my  thanks  : 
Thou  'mindst  me  of  that  autumn  noon 

When  first  we  met  upon  "  the  banks 
And  braes  o'  bonny  Doon." 


Like  thine,  beneath  the  thorn-tree's  bough, 
My  sunny  hour  was  glad  and  brief, 

We  've  crossed  the  winter  sea,  and  thou 
Art  withered, — flower  and  leaf. 


BURNS.  23 

And  will  not  thy  death-doom  be  mine, — 
The  doom  of  all  things  wrought  of  clay, — 

And  withered  my  life's  leaf  like  thine, 
Wild  rose  of  Allow  ay  ? 


Not  so  his  memory,  tor  whose  sake 
My  bosom  bore  thee  far  and  long, 

His — who  a  humbler  flower  could  make 
Immortal  as  his  song, 


The  memory  of  Burns — a  name 

That  calls,  when  brimmed  her  festal  cup, 
A  nation's  glory,  and  her  shame, 

In  silent  sadness  up. 


A  nation's  glory — be  the  rest 

Forgot — she  's  canonized  his  mind ; 

And  it  is  joy  to  speak  the  best 
We  may  of  human  kind. 


24  BURNS. 

I  've  stood  beside  the  cottage  bed 

Where  the  Bard-peasant  first  drew  breath ; 

A  straw-thatched  roof  above  his  head, 
A  straw-wrought  couch  beneath. 


And  I  have  stood  beside  the  pile, 
His  monument — that  tells  to  Heaven 

The  homage  of  earth's  proudest  isle 
To  that  Bard-peasant  given  ! 


Bid  thy  thoughts  hover  o'er  that  spot, 
Boy-Minstrel,  in  thy  dreaming  hour ; 

And  know,  however  low  his  lot, 
A  Poet's  pride  and  power. 


The  pride  that  lifted  Burns  from  earth, 
The  power  that  gave  a  child  of  song 

Ascendancy  o'er  rank  and  birth, 
The  rich,  the  brave,  the  strong ; 


BURNS.  25 

And  if  despondency  weigh  down 
Thy  spirit's  fluttering  pinions  then, 

Despair — thy  name  is  written  on 
The  roll  of  common  men. 


There  have  been  loftier  themes  than  his, 
And  longer  scrolls,  and  louder  lyres, 

And  lays  lit  up  with  Poesy's 
Purer  and  holier  fires  : 


Yet  read  the  names  that  know  not  death ; 

Few  nobler  ones  than  Burns  are  there ; 
And  few  have  won  a  greener  wreath 

Than  that  which  binds  his  hair. 


His  is  that  language  of  the  heart, 

In  which  the  answering  heart  would  speak, 
Thought,  word,  that  bids  the  warm  tear  start, 

Or  the  smile  light  the  cheek  ; 


26  BURNS. 

And  his  that  music,  to  whose  tone 

The  common  pulse  of  man  keeps  time, 

In  cot  or  castle's  mirth  or  moan, 
In  cold  or  sunny  clime. 


And  who  hath  heard  his  song,  nor  knelt 
Before  its  spell  with  willing  knee, 

And  listened,  and  believed,  and  felt 
The  Poet's  mastery 


O'er  the  mind's  sea,  in  calm  and  storm, 
O'er  the  heart's  sunshine,  and  its  showers, 

O'er  Passion's  moments,  bright  and  warm, 
O'er  Reason's  dark,  cold  hours ; 


On  fields  where  brave  men  "  die  or  do," 
In  halls  where  rings  the  banquet's  mirth, 

Where  mourners  weep,  where  lovers  woo, 
From  throne  to  cottage  hearth  ? 


BURNS.  27 

* 

What  sweet  tears  dim  the  eyes  unshed, 
What  wild  vows  falter  on  the  tongue, 
When  "  Scots  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled," 
Or  "  Auld  Lang  Syne  "  is  sung ! 


Pure  hopes,  that  lift  the  soul  above, 
Come  with  his  Cotter's  hymn  of  praise, 

And  dreams  of  youth,  and  truth,  and  love, 
With  "  Logan's"  banks  and  braes. 


And  when  he  breathes  his  master-lay 
Of  Alloway's  witch-haunted  wall, 

All  passions  in  our  frames  of  clay 
Come  thronging  at  his  call. 


Imagination's  world  of  air, 

And  our  own  world,  its  gloom  and  glee, 
Wit,  pathos,  poetry,  are  there, 

And  death's  sublimity. 


28  BURNS. 

And  Burns — though  brief  the  race  he  ran, 
Though  rough  and  dark  the  path  he  trod, 

Lived — died — in  form  and  soul  a  Man, 
The  image  of  his  God. 


Though  care,  and  pain,  and  want,  and  woe, 
With  wounds  that  only  death  could  heal, 

Tortures — the  poor  alone  can  know, 
The  proud  alone  can  feel ; 


He  kept  his  honesty  and  truth, 
His  independent  tongue  and  pen, 

And  moved,  in  manhood,  as  in  youth, 
Pride  of  his  fellow  men. 


Strong  sense,  deep  feeling,  passions  strong, 

A  hate  of  tyrant  and  of  knave, 
A  love  of  right,  a  scorn  of  wrong, 

Of  coward,  and  of  slave ; 


BURNS. 


A  kind,  true  heart,  a  spirit  high, 

That  could  not  fear,  and  would  not  bow, 

Were  written  in  his  manly  eye, 
And  on  his  manly  brow. 


Praise  to  the  bard  !  —  his  words  are  driven, 
Like  flower-seeds  by  the  far  winds  sown, 

Where'er,  beneath  the  sky  of  heaven, 
The  birds  of  fame  have  flown. 


Praise  to  the  man  !  a  nation  stood 
Beside  his  coffin  with  wet  eyes, 

Her  brave,  her  beautiful,  her  good, 
As  when  a  loved  one  dies. 


And  still,  as  on  his  funeral  day, 

Men  stand  his  cold  earth-couch  around, 
With  the  mute  homage  that  we  pay 

To  consecrated  ground. 


30  BURNS. 

And  consecrated  ground  it  is, 

The  last,  the  hallowed  home  of  one 

Who  lives  upon  all  memories, 
Though  with  the  buried  gone. 


.    * 


Such  graves  as  his  are  pilgrim-shrines, 
Shrines  to  no  code  or  creed  confined, — 

The  Delphian  vales,  the  Palestines, 
The  Meccas  of  the  mind. 


Sages,  with  wisdom's  garland  wreathed, 

Crowned  kings,  a  id  mitred  priests  of  power, 

And  warriors  with  then*  bright  swords  sheathed, 
The  mightiest  of  the  hour ; 


And  lowlier  names,  whose  humble  home 
Is  lit  by  Fortune's  dimmei^star, 

Are  there — o'er  wave  and  mountain  come, 
From  countries  near  and  far ; 


BURNS.  31 

I 

Pilgrims  whose  wandering  feet  have  prest 
The  Switzer's  snow,  the  Arab's  sand, 

Or  trod  the  piled  leaves  of  the  West, 
My  own  green  forest-land. 


All  ask  the  cottage  of  his  birth, 

Gaze  on  the  scenes  he  loved  and  sung, 
And  gather  feelings  not  of  earth 

His  fields  ajad  streams  among. 


They  linger  by  the  Doon's  low  trees, 
And  pastoral  Nith,  and  wooded  Ayr, 

And  round  thy  sepulchres,  Dumfries  ! 
The  Poet's  tomb  is 


But  what  to  them  the  sculptor's  art, 

His  funeral^ columns,  wreaths,  and  urns? 

Wear  they  not  graven  on  the  heart 
The  name  of  Robert  Burns  ? 


WYOMING. 


"  Dites  si  la  Nature  n'a  pas  fait  ce  beau  pays  pour  une  Julie,  pour  une  Claiic,  ct 
pour  un  St.  Preux,  mais  ne  les  y  cherchez  pas." 

UOUSSEAU. 


I. 


THOU  com'st,  in  beauty,  on  my  gaze  at  last, 
"  On  Susquehannah's  side,  fair  Wyoming!" 

Image  of  many  a  dream,  in  hours  long  past, 

% 
When  life  was  in  its  bud  and  blossoming, 

And  waters,  gushing  from  the  fountain  spring 
Of  pure  enthusiast  thought,  dimmed  my  young  eyes, 
As  by  the  poet  borne,  on  unseen  wing,  ;* 
I  breathed,  in  fancy,  'neath  thy  cloudless  skies, 
The  summer's  air,  and  heard  her  echoed  harmonies. 


WYOMING.  33 

II. 

I  then  but  dreamed :  thou  art  before  me  now, 
In  life,  a  vision  of  the  brain  no  more. 
I've  stood  upon  the  wooded  mountain's  brow, 
That  beetles  high  thy  lovely  valley  o'er ; 
And  now,  where  winds  thy  river's  greenest  shore, 
Within  a  bower  of  sycamores  am  laid ; 
And  winds,  as  soft  and  sweet  as  ever  bore 
The  fragrance  of  wild  flowers  through  sun  and  shade, 
Are  singing  in  the  trees,  whose  low  boughs  press 
my  head. 


III. 


Nature  hath  made  thee  lovelier  than  the  power 
Even  of  Campbell's  pen  hath  pictured:  he 
Had  woven,  had  he  gazed  one  sunny  hour 
Upon  thy  smiling  vale,  its  scenery 
With  more  of  truth,  and  made  each  rock  and  tree 
Known  like  old  friends,  and  greeted  from  afar : 
And  there  are  tales  of  sad  reality, 
In  the  dark  legends  of  thy  border  war, 
With  woes  of  deeper  tint  than  his  own  Gertrude's  are. 


34  WYOMING. 

IV. 

But  where  are  they,  the  beings  of  the  mind, 
The  bard's  creations,  moulded  not  of  clay, 
Hearts  to  strange  bliss  and  suffering  assigned — 
Young   Gertrude,    Albert,   Waldegrave — where 

are  they? 

We  need  not  ask.     The  people  of  to-day 
Appear  good,  honest,  quiet  men  enough, 
And  hospitable  too — for  ready  pay, — 
With  manners  like  their  roads,  a  little  rough, 
And  hands  whose  grasp  is  warm  and  \velcoming, 

tho'  tough. 

V. 

Judge  Hallenbach,  who  keeps  the  toll-bridge  gate, 
And  the  town  records,  is  the  Albert  now 
Of  Wyoming :  like  him,  in  church  and  state, 
Her  doric  column ;  and  upon  his  brow 
The  thin  hairs,  white  with  seventy  winters'  snow, 
Look  patriarchal.     Waldegrave  'twere  in  vain 
To  point  out  here,  unless  in  yon  scare-crow, 
That  stands  full-uniformed  upon  the  plain, 
To  frighten  flocks  of  crows  and  blackbirds  from  the 
grain. 


WYOMING.  35 

VI. 

For  he  would  look  particularly  droll 
In  his  "  Iberian  boot"  and  "  Spanish  plume," 
And  be  the  wonder  of  each  Christian  soul 
As  of  the  birds  that  scare-crow  and  his  broom. 
But  Gertrude,  in  her  loveliness  and  bloom, 
Hath  many  a  model  here, — for  Woman's  eye, 
In  court  or  cottage,  wheresoe'er  her  home 
Hath  a  heart-spell  too  holy  and  too  high 
To  be  o'er-praised  even  by  her  worshipper — Poesy. 

VII. 

There's  one  in  the  next  field — of  sweet  sixteen — 
Singing  and  summoning  thoughts  of  beauty  born 
In  heaven — with  her  jacket  of  light  green, 
"Love-darting  eyes,  and  tresses  like  the  morn," 
Without  a  shoe  or  stocking, — hoeing  corn. 
Whether,  like  Gertrude,  she  oft  wanders  there, 
With  Shakspeare's  volume  in  her  bosom  borne, 
I  think  is  doubtful.     Of  the  poet-player 
The  maidenknows  no  more  than  Cobbett  or  Voltaire. 


36  WYOMING. 

VIII. 

There  is  a  woman,  widowed,  gray,  and  old, 
Who  tells  you  where  the  foot  of  Battle  stept 
Upon  their  day  of  massacre.     She  told 
Its  tale,  and  pointed  to  the  spot,  and  wept, 
Whereon  her  father  and  five  brothers  slept 
Shroudless,  the  bright-dreamed  slumbers  of  the 

brave, 

When  all  the  land  a  funeral  mourning  kept. 
And  there,  wild  laurels  planted  on  the  grave 
By  Nature's  hand,  in  air  their  pale  red  blossoms  wave. 

IX. 

And  on  the  margin  of  yon  orchard  hill 

Are  marks  where  time-worn  battlements  have 

been, 

And  in  the  tall  grass  traces  linger  still 
Of  "  arrowy  frieze  and  wedged  ravelin." 
Five  hundred  of  her  brave  that  Valley  green 
Trod  on  the  morn  in  soldier-spirit  gay; 
But  twenty  lived  to  tell  the  noon-day  scene — 
And  where  are  now  the  twenty?  Passed  away. 
Has  Death  no  triumph-hours,  save  on  the  battle-day? 


ON    THE    DEATH    OF 


JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE, 


OF    NEW-YORK,    SEPT.    1820. 


"  The  good  die  first. 

And  they,  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust, 
Burn  to  the  socket." 

WORDSWORTH. 


GREEN  be  the  turf  above  thee, 
Friend  of  my  better  days  ! 

None  knew  thee  but  to  love  thee, 
Nor  named  thee  but  to  praise 

»          *5i-. 


38      ON  THE  DEATH  OF  J.  RODMAN  DRAKE. 

Tears  fell,  when  thou  wert  dying, 
From  eyes  unused  to  weep, 

And  long,  where  thou  art  lying, 
Will  tears  the  cold  turf  steep. 


When  hearts,  whose  truth  was  proven, 
Like  thine,  are  laid  in  earth, 

There  should  a  wreath  be  woven 
To  tell  the  world  their  worth, 


And  I,  who  woke  each  morrow 
To  clasp  thy  hand  in  mine, 

Who  shared  thy  joy  and  sorrow, 
Whose  weal  and  woe  were  thine ; 


It  should  be  mine  to  braid  it 
Around  thy  faded  brow, 

But  I've  in  vain  essayed  it, 
And  feel  I  cannot  now. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  J.  RODMAN  DRAKE.     39 

While  memory  bids  me  weep  thee, 
Nor  thoughts  nor  words  are  free, 

The  grief  is  fixed  too  deeply 
That  mourns  a  man  like  thee. 


TWILIGHT. 


THERE  is  an  evening  twilight  of  the  heart, 

When  its  wild  passion-^vaves  are  lulled  to  rest, 
And  the  eye  see's  life's  feicy  scenes  depart, 

As  fades  the  day-beam'in  the  rosy  west. 
'Tis  with  a  nameless  feeling  of  regret 

We  gaze  upon  them  as  'they  melt  away, 
And  fondly  would  we  bid  them  linger  yet, 

But  Hope  is  round  us  with  her  angel  lay, 
Hailing  afar  some  happier  moonlight  hour ; 
Dear  are  her  whispers  still,  though  lost  their  early 
power. 


TWILIGHT. 


In  youth  the  cheek  was  crimsoned  with  her  glow,; 

Her  smile  was  loveliest  then;  her  matin  song 
Was  heaven's  own  music,  and  the  note  of  woe 

Was  all  unheard  her  sunny  bowers  among. 
Life's  little  world  of  blis&was  newly  born; 

We  knew  not,  cared  not,  it  was  born  to  die, 
Flushed  with  the  cool  breeze  and  the  dews  of  morn, 

With  dancing  heart  we  gazed  on  the  pure  sky, 
And  mocked  the  passing  clouds  that  dimmed  its  blue, 
Like  our  own  sorrows  then  —  as  fleeting  and  as  few. 


And  manhood  felt  her  sway  too,  —  on  the  eye, 

Half  realised,  her  early  dreams  burst  bright, 
Her  promised  bower  of  happiness  seemed  nigh, 

Its  days  of  joy,  its  vigils  of  delight  ; 
And  though  at  times  might  lower  the  thunder  storm, 

And  the  red  lightnings  threaten,  still  the  air 
Was  balmy  with  her  breath,  and  her  loved  form, 

The  rainbow  of  the  heart,  was  hovering  there. 
'Tis  in  life's  noontide  she  is  nearest  seen, 
Her  wreath  the  summer  flower,  her  robe  of  summer 
green. 


42  TWILIGHT. 

But  though  less  dazzling  in  her  twilight  dress, 

There's  more  of  heaven'spurebeamabouther  now; 
That  angel-smile  of  tranquil  loveliness, 

Which  the  heart  worships,  glowing  on  her  brow ; 
That  smile  shall  brighten  the  dim  evening  star 

That  points  our  destined  tomb,  nor  e'er  depart 
Till  the  faint  light  of  life  is  fled  afar, 

And  hushed  the  last  deep  beating  of  the  heart; 
The  meteor-bearer  of  our  parting  breath, 
A  moon-beam  in  the  midnight  cloud  of  death. 


PSALM  CXXXVII. 


By  the  rivers  of  Babylon." 


WE  sat  us  down  and  wept, 
Where  Babel's  waters  slept, 
And  we  thought  of  home  and  Zion  as  a  long-gone, 

happy  dream ; 
We  hung  our  harps  in  air 
On  the  willow  boughs,  which  there, 
Gloomy  as  round  a  sepulchre,  were  drooping  o'er 
the  stream. 


44  PSALM    CXXXVII. 

The  foes,  whose  chain  we  wore, 

Were  with  us  on  that  shore, 
Exulting  in  our  tears  that  told  the  bitterness  of  woe. 

"  Sing  us,"  they  cried  aloud, 

"  Ye,  once  so  high  and  proud, 
"The  songsye  sang  in  Zion  ere  we  laid  her  glory  low." 

And  shall  the  harp  of  heaven 
To  Judah's  monarch  given 
Be  touched  by  captive  fingers,  or  grace  a  fettered 

hand? 

No !  sooner  be  my  tongue 
Mute,  powerless,  and  unstrung, 
Than  its  words  of  holy  music  make  glad  a  stranger 
land. 

\  • 

May  this  right  hand,  whose  skill 

Can  wake  the  harp  at  will, 

And  bid  the  listeners'  joys  or  griefs  in  light  or 
darkness  come, 

Forget  its  godlike  power, 

If  for  one  brief,  dark  hour, 
My  heart  forgets  Jerusalem,  fallen  city  of  my  home ! 


PSALM    CXXXVII.  45 

Daughter  of  Babylon  ! 
Blest  be  that  chosen  one, 
Whom  God  shall  send  to  smite  thee  when  there  is 

none  to  save ; 

He  from  the  mother's  breast, 
Shall  pluck  the  babe  at  rest, 

And  lay  it  in  the  sleep  of  death  beside  its  father's 
grave.. 


~ 


'"A 


*  *  .*  * 


THE  world  is  bright  before  thee, 

Its  summer  flowers  are  thine, 
Its  calm  blue  sky  is  o"*er  thee, 

Thy  bosom  Pleasure's  shrine ; 
And  thine  the  sunbeam  given 

To  Nature's  morning  hour, 
Pure,  warm,  as  when  from  heaven 

It  burst  on  Eden's  bower. 


TO  *  *  *  *f  47 

There  is  a  song  of  sorrow, 

The  death-dirge  of  the  gay, 
That  tells,  ere  dawn  of  morrow, 

These  charms  may  melt  away, 
That  sun's  bright  beam  be  shaded, 

That  sky  be  blue  no  more, 
The  summer  flowers  be  faded, 

And  youth's  warm  promise  o'er. 

B  eh' eve  it  not — though  lonely 
Thy  evening  home  may  be ; 
Though  Beauty's  bark  can  only 

Float  on  a  summer  sea ; 
*  t 

Though  Tune  thy  bloom  is  stealing, 

There  's  still  beyond  his  art 
The  wild-flower  wreath  of  feeling, 

The  sunbeam  of  the  heart. 


THE  FIELD  OF  THE  GROUNDED  ARMS, 


SARATOGA. 


STRANGERS  !  your  eyes  are  on  that  valley  fixed 
-Intently,  as  we  gaze  on  vacancy, 

When  the  mind's  wings  o'erspread 

The  spirit-world  of  dreams. 


True,  'tis  a  scene  of  loveliness — the  bright 
Green  dwelling  of  the  summer's  first-born  Hours, 

Whose  wakened  leaf  and  bud 

Are  welcoming  the  morn. 


FIELD  OF  THE  GROUNDED  ARMS.  49 

And  morn  returns  the  welcome,  sun  and  cloud 
Smile  on  the  green  earth  from  their  home  in  heaven, 

Even  as  a  mother  smiles 

Above  her  cradled  boy, 


And  wreath  their  light  and  shade  o'er  plain  and 

mountain , 
O'er  sleepless  seas  of  grass  whose  waves  are  flowers, 

The  rivers'  golden  shores, 

The  forests  of  dark  pines. 


The  song  of  the  wild  bird  is  on  the  wind, 
The  hum  of  the  wild  bee,  the  music  wild 
Of  waves  upon  the  bank, 
Of  leaves  upon  the  bough. 


But  all  is  song  and  beauty  in  the  land, 
-^  feeneath  her  skies  of  June ;  then  journey  on, 
A  thousand  scenes  like  this 
Will  greet  you  ere  the  eve. 


50  FIELD  OF  THE  GROUNDED  ARMS. 

Ye  linger  yet — ye  see  not,  hear  not  now 
The  sunny  smile,  the  music  of  to-day, 
Your  thoughts  are  wandering  up 
Far  up  the  stream  of  time ; 


And  boyhood's  lore  and  fireside  listened  tales 
Are  rushing  on  your  memories,  as  ye  breathe 
That  valley's  storied  name, 
FIELD  OF  THE  GROUNDED  ARMS. 


Strangers  no  more,  a  kindred  "  pride  of  place," 
Pride  in  the  gift  of  country  and  of  name 

Speaks  in  your  eye  and  step — 

Ye  tread  your  native  land. 


And  your  high  thoughts  are  on  her  glory's  day, 
The  solemn  sabbath  of  the  week  of  battle, 

Whose  tempests  bowed  to  earth 

Her  foeman's  banner  here. 


FIELD  OF  THE  GROUNDED  ARMS.  51 


The  forest  leaves  lay  scattered  cold  and  dead, 
Upon  the  withered  grass  that  autumn  morn, 

When,  with  as  withered  hearts 

And  hopes  as  dead  and  cold, 


A  gallant  army  formed  their  last  array 
Upon  that  field,  in  silence  and  deep  gloom, 
And  at  their  conqueror's  feet 
Laid  their  war-weapons  down. 


Sullen  and  stern,  disarmed  but  not  dishonoured ; 
Brave  men,  but  brave  in  vain,  they  yielded  there 

The  soldier's  trial  task 

Is  not  alone  "  to  die." 


Honour  to  chivalry !  the  conqueror's  breath 
Stains  not  the  ermine  of  his  foeman's  fame, 

Nor  mocks  his  captive's  doom— 

The  bitterest  cup  of  war. 


52  FIELD  OF  THE  GROUNDED  ARMS. 

But  be  that  bitterest  cup  the  doom  of  all 
Whose  swords  are  lightning  flashes  in  the  cloud 

Of  the  Invader's  wrath, 

Threatening  a  gallant  land. 


His  armies'  trumpet-tones  wake  not  alone 
Her  slumbering  echoes ;  from  a  thousand  hills 

Her  answering  voices  shout, 

And  her  bells  ring  to  arms ! 


Then  danger  hovers  o'er  the  Invader's  march, 
On  raven  wings,  hushing  the  song  of  fame, 
And  glory's  hues  of  beauty 
Fade  from  the  cheek  of  death. 


A  foe  is  heard  in  every  rustling  leaf, 
A  fortress  seen  in  every  rock  and  tree, 
The  eagle  eye  of  art 
Is  dim  and  powerless  then, 


FIELD  OF  THE  GROUNDED  ARMS.  53 

And  war  becomes  a  people's  joy,  the  drum 
Man's  merriest  music,  and  the  field  of  death 

His  couch  of  happy  dreams, 

After  life's  harvest  home. 


He  battles  heart  and  arm,  his  own  blue  sky 
Above  him,  and  his  own  green  land  around, 
Land  of  his  father's  grave, 
His  blessing  and  his  prayers, 


Land  where  he  learnt  to  lisp  a  mother's  name, 
The  first  beloved  in  life,  the  last  forgot, 

Land  of  his  frolic  youth, 

Land  of  his  bridal  eve, 


Land  of  his  children, — vain  your  columned  strength 
Invaders  !  vain  your  battles'  steel  and  fire  ! 

Choose  ye  the  morrow's  doom, — 

A  prison  or  a  grave. 


54  FIELD  OF  THE  GROUNDED  ARMS. 

And  such  were  Saratoga's  victors — such 
The  Yeomen-Brave,  whose  deeds  and  death  have 
given 

A  glory  to  her  skies, 

A  music  to  her  name. 


In  honourable  life  her  fields  they  trod, 
In  honourable  death  they  sleep  below ; 
Their  sons'  proud  feelings  here 
Their  noblest  monuments. 


RED  JACKET. 


A    CHIEF    OF    THE    INDIAN    TRIBES,    THE    TUSCARORAS. 


OX    LOOKING   AT   BIS    PORTRAIT    BY    WEIR. 


COOPER,  whose  name  is  with  his  country's  woven, 
First  in  her  files,  her  PIONEER  of  mind — 

A  wanderer  now  in  other  climes,  has  proven 
His  love  for  the  young  land  he  left  behind ; 6 


And  throned  her  in  the  senate  hall  of  nations, 
Robed  like  the  deluge  rainbow,  heaven-wrought, 

Magnificent  as  his  own  mind's  creations, 
And  beautiful  as  its  green  world  of  thought ; 


56  RED    JACKET. 

And  faithful  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  quoted 
As  law  authority, — it  passed  nem.  con. — 

He  writes  that  we  are,  as  ourselves  have  voted, 
The  most  enlightened  people  ever  known. 


That  ah1  our  week  is  happy  as  a  Sunday 
In  Paris,  full  of  song  and  dance  and  laugh ; 

And  that,  from  Orleans  to  the  Bay  of  Fundy, 
There's  not  a  bailiff,  or  an  epitaph. 


And  furthermore — in  fifty  years,  or  sooner, 
We  shall  export  our  poetry  and  wine ; 

And  our  brave  fleet,  eight  frigates  and  a  schooner, 
Will  sweep  the  seas  from  Zembla  to  the  Line. 


If  he  were  with  me,  King  of  Tuscarora ! 

Gazing,  as  I,  upon  thy  portrait  now, 
In  all  its  medalled,  fringed,  and  beaded  glory, 

Its  eye's  dark  beauty,  and  its  thoughtful  brow — 


RED    JACKET.  57 

Its  brow,  half  martial,  and  half  diplomatic, 
Its  eye,  upsoaring  like  an  eagle's  wings ; 

Well  might  he  boast  that  we,  the  Democratic, 
Outrival  Europe,  even  in  our  Kings  ! 


For  thou  wast  monarch  born.     Tradition's  pages 
Tell  not  the  planting  of  thy  parent  tree, 

But  that  the  forest  tribes  have  bent  for  ages 
To  thee,  and  to  thy  sires,  the  subject  knee. 


Thy  name  is  princely, — if  no  poet's  magic 

Could  make  RED  JACKET  grace  an  English  rhyme, 

Though  some  one  with  a  genius  for  the  tragic 
Hath  introduced  it  in  a  pantomime, 


Yet  it  is  music  in  the  language  spoken 

Of  thine  own  land ;  and  on  her  herald  roll ; 

As  bravely  fought  for,  and  as  proud  a  token 
As  Coeur  de  Lion's,  of  a  warrior's  soul. 


58  RED    JACKET. 

Thy  garb-though  Austria's  bosom-star  would  frighten 
That  medal  pale,  as  diamonds  the  dark  mine, 

And  George  the  Fourth  wore,  at  his  court  at  Brighton, 
A  more  becoming  evening  dress  than  thine ; 


Yet  'tis  a  brave  one,  scorning  wind  and  weather, 
And  fitted  for  thy  couch,  on  field  and  flood, 

A  Rob  Roy's  tartan  for  the  Highland  heather, 
Or  forest  green  for  England's  Robin  Hood. 


Is  strength  a  monarch's  merit,  like  a  whale's  ? 

Thou  art  as  tall,  as  sinewy,  and  as  strong 
As  earth's  first  kings, — the  Argo's  gallant  sailors, 

Heroes  in  history,  and  gods  in  song. 


Is  beauty  ? — Thine  has  with  thy  youth  departed ; 

But  the  love-legends  of  thy  manhood's  years, 
And  she  who  perished,  young  and  broken  hearted, 

Are — but  I  rhyme  for  smiles  and  not  for  tears. 


RED    JACKET.  59 

Is  eloquence  ? — Her  spell  is  thine  that  reaches 
The  heart,  and  makes  the  wisest  head  its  sport ; 

And  there's  one  rare,  strange  virtue  in  thy  speeches, 
The  secret  of  their  mastery, — they  are  short. 


The  monarch  mind,  the  mystery  of  commanding, 
The  birth-hour  gift,  the  art  Napoleon, 

Of  winning,  fettering,  moulding,  wielding,  banding 
The  hearts  of  millions  till  they  move  as  one ; 


Thou  hast  it.     At  thy  bidding  men  have  crowded 

The  road  to  death  as  to  a  festival ; 
And  minstrels,  at  their  sepulchres,  have  shrouded 

With  banner-folds  of  glory  the  dark  pall. 


Who  will  believe  ?    Not  I — for  in  deceiving 
Lies  the  dear  charm  of  life's  delightful  dream ; 

I  cannot  spare  the  luxury  of  believing 

That  all  things  beautiful  are  what  they  seem. 


60  RED    JACKET. 

Who  \vill  believe  that,  with  a  smile  whose  blessing 
Would,  like  the  Patriarch's,  sooth  a  dying  hour, 

With  voice  as  low,  as  gentle,  and  caressing, 
As  e'er  won  maiden's  lip  hi  moonlit  bower ; 


With  look,  like  patient  Job's,  eschewing  evil ; 

With  motions  graceful,  as  a  bird's  hi  air ; 
Thou  art,  in  sober  truth,  the  veriest  devil 

That  e'er  clenched  fingers  hi  a  captive's  hair ! 


That  in  thy  breast  there  springs  a  poison  fountain, 
Deadlier  than  that  where  bathes  the  Upas  tree ; 

And  in  thy  wrath,  a  nursing  cat-o'-mountain 

Is  calm  as  her  babe's  sleep,  compared  with  thee  ! 


And  underneath  that  face,  like  summer  ocean's, 
Its  lip  as  moveless,  and  its  cheek  as  clear, 

Slumbers  a  whirlwind  of  the  heart's  emotions, 
Love,  hatred,  pride,  hope,  sorrow, — all  save  fear. 


RED    JACKET.  61 

Love — for  thy  land,  as  if  she  were  thy  daughter, 
Her  pipe  in  peace,  her  tomahawk  in  wars ; 

Hatred — of  missionaries  and  cold  water ; 
Pride — in  thy  rifle-trophies  and  thy  scars ; 


Hope — that  thy  wrongs,  may  be  by  the  Great  Spirit 
Remembered  and  revenged,  when  thou  art  gone ; 

Sorrow — that  none  are  left  thee  to  inherit 
Thy  name,  thy  fame,  thy  passions,  and  thy  throne ! 


LOVE. 


The  imperial  votress  passed  on 

In  maiden  meditation,  fancy  free. 

Midsummer  Wight's  Dream, 

Shall  I  never  see  a  bachelor  of  three-score  again  ? 

BENEDICT,  in  Much  Ado  about  Nothing. 


I. 


WHEN  the  tree  of  Love  is  budding  first, 

Ere  yet  its  leaves  are  green, 
Ere  yet,  by  shower  and  sunbeam  nurst 

Its  infant  life  has  been ; 
The  wild  bee's  slightest  touch  might  wring 

The  buds  from  off  the  tree, 
As  the  gentle  dip  of  the  swallow's  wing 

Breaks  the  bubbles  on  the  sea. 


LOVE.  63 

II. 

But  when  its  open  leaves  have  found 

A  home  in  the  free  air, 
Pluck  them,  and  there  remains  a  wound 

That  ever  rankles  there. 
The  blight  of  hope  and  happiness 

Is  felt  when  fond  ones  part, 
And  the  bitter  tear  that  follows  is 

The  life-blood  of  the  heart. 


III. 

When  the  flame  of  love  is  kindled  first, 

'Tis  the  fire-fly's  light  at  even, 
'Tis  dim  as  the  wandering  stars  that  burst 

In  the  blue  of  the  summer  heaven. 
A  breath  can  bid  it  burn  no  more, 

Or  if,  at  times,  its  beams 
Come  on  the  memory,  they  pass  o'er 

Like  shadows  in  our  dreams. 


64  LOVE. 


IV. 


But  when  that  flame  has  blazed  into 

A  being  and  a  power, 
And  smiled  in  scorn  upon  the  dew 

That  fell  in  its  first  warm  hour, 
'Tis  the  flame  that  curls  round  the  martyr's  head, 

Whose  task  is  to  destroy ; 
'Tis  the  lamp  on  the  altars  of  the  dead, 

Whose  light  but  darkens  joy ! 


V. 


Then  crush,  even  in  their  hour  of  birth, 

The  infant  buds  of  Love, 
And  tread  his  glowing  fire  to  earth, 

Ere  'tis  dark  in  clouds  above ; 
Cherish  no  more  a  cypress  tree 

To  shade  thy  future  years, 
Nor  nurse  a  heart-flame  that  may  be 

Quenched  only  with  thy  tears. 


A  SKETCH. 


HER  Leghorn  hat  was  of  the  bright  gold  tint 
The  setting  sunbeams  give  to  autumn  clouds ; 
The  ribband  that  encircled  it  as  blue 
As  spots  of  sky  upon  a  moonless  night, 
When  stars  are  keeping  revelry  in  heaven ; 
A  single  ringlet  of  her  clustering  hair 
Fell  gracefully  beneath  her  hat,  in  curls 
As  dark  as  down  upon  the  raven's  wing ; 
The  kerchief,  partly  o'er  her  shoulders  flung, 
And  partly  waving  in  the  wind,  was  woven 
Of  every  colour  the  first  rainbow  wore, 
When  it  came  smiling  in  its  hues  of  beauty, 
A  promise  from  on  high  to  a  lost  world. 


66  A    SKETCH. 

Her  robe  seemed  of  the  snow  just  fallen  to  earth, 
Pure  from  its  home  in  the  far  winter  clouds, 
As  white,  as  stainless ;  and  around  her  waist, 
(You  might  have  spanned  it  with  your  thumb  and 

finger,) 

A  girdle  of  the  hue  of  Indian  pearls 
Was  twined,  resembling  the  famt  line  of  water 
That  follows  the  swift  bark  o'er  quiet  seas. 
Her  face  I  saw  not — but  her  shape — her  form, 
Was  one  of  those  with  which  creating  bards 
People  a  world  of  their  own  fashioning, 
Forms  for  the  heart  to  love  and  cherish  ever, 
The  visiting  angels  of  our  twilight  dreams. 
Her  foot  was  loveliest  of  remembered  things, 
Small  as  a  fairy's  on  a  moonlit  leaf 
Listening  the  wind-harp's  song,  and  watching  by 
The  wild-thyme  pillow  of  her  sleeping  queen, 
When  proud  Titania  shuns  her  Oberon. 
But  'twas  that  foot  which  broke  the  spell — alas  ! 
Its  stocking  had  a  deep,  deep  tinge  of  blue, — 
I  turned  away  in  sadness,  and  passed  on. 


DOMESTIC  HAPPINESS. 


the  only  bliss 

Of  Paradise  that  has  survived  the  fall. 

COWPER. 


I. 


"BESIDE  the  nuptial  curtain  bright" 

The  Bard  of  Eden  sings, 
"Young  Love  his  constant  lamp  will  light, 

"  And  wave  his  purple  wings." 
But  rain-drops  from  the  clouds  of  care 

May  bid  that  lamp  be  dim, 
And  the  boy  Love  will  pout  and  swear 

'Tis  then  no  place  for  him. 


68  DOMESTIC    HAPPINESS. 

II. 

So  mused  the  lovely  Mrs.  Dash ; 

'Tis  wrong  to  mention  names ; 
When  for  her  surly  husband's  cash 

She  urged  in  vain  her  claims. 
"  I  want  a  little  money,  dear, 

"  For  Vandervoort  and  Flandin, 
"  Their  bill,  which  now  has  run  a  year, 

"  To-morrow  mean  to  hand  in." 


III. 

"  More  ?  "  cried  the  husband,  hah0  asleep, 

"  You'll  drive  me  to  despair ; " 
The  lady  was  too  proud  to  weep, 

And  too  polite  to  swear. 
She  bit  her  lip  for  very  spite, 

He  felt  a  storm  was  brewing, 
And  dreamed  of  nothing  else  all  night 

But  brokers,  banks,  and  ruin. 


DOMESTIC    HAPPINESS.  69 

IV. 

He  thought  her  pretty  once,  but  dreams 

Have  sure  a  wondrous  power, 
For  to  his  eye  the  lady  seems 

Quite  altered  since  that  hour — 
And  Love,  who  on  their  bridal  eve, 

Had  promised  long  to  stay, 
Forgot  his  promise — took  French  leave — 

And  bore  his  lamp  away. 


MAGDALEN.7 


I. 


A  SWORD,  whose  blade  has  ne'er  been  wet 

With  blood,  except  of  freedom's  foes ; 
That  hope  which,  though  its  sun  be  set, 

Still  with  a  starlight  beauty  glows ; 
A  heart  that  worshipp'd  in  Romance 

The  Spirit  of  the  buried  Time, 
And  dreams  of  knight,  and  steed,  and  lance, 

And  ladye-love,  and  minstrel-rhyme ; 
These  had  been,  and  I  deemed  would  be 
My  joy,  whate'er  my  destiny. 


MAGDALEN.  71 

II. 

Born  in  a  camp,  its  watch-fires  bright 

Alone  illumed  my  cradle-bed ; 
And  I  had  borne  with  wild  delight 

My  banner  where  Bolivar  led, 
Ere  manhood's  hue  was  on  my  cheek, 

Or  manhood's  pride  was  on  my  brow. 
Its  folds  are  furled — the  war-bird's  beak 

Is  thirsty  on  the  Andes  now ; 
I  longed,  like  her,  for  other  skies 
Clouded  by  Glory's  sacrifice. 

III. 

In  Greece,  the  brave  heart's  Holy  Land, 

Its  soldier-song  the  bugle  sings ; 
And  I  had  buckled  on  my  brand, 

And  waited  but  the  sea  wind's  wings, 
To  bear  me  where,  or  lost  or  won 

Her  battle,  in  its  frown  or  smile, 
Men  live  with  those  of  Marathon, 

Or  die  with  those  of  Scio's  isle ; 
And  find  in  Valour's  tent  or  tomb, 
In  life  or  death,  a  glorious  home. 


72  MAGDALEN. 

IV. 

I  could  have  left  but  yesterday 

The  scene  of  my  boy-years  behind, 
And  floated  on  my  careless  way 

Wherever  willed  the  breathing  wind. 
I  could  have  bade  adieu  to  aught 

I  've  sought,  or  met,  or  welcomed  here, 
Without  an  hour  of  shaded  thought, 

A  sigh,  a  murmur,  or  a  tear. 
Such  was  I  yesterday, — but  then 
I  had  not  known  thee,  Magdalen. 

V. 

To-day  there  is  a  change  within  me, 

There  is  a  weight  upon  my  brow, 
And  Fame,  whose  whispers  once  could  win  me 

From  all  I  loved,  is  powerless  now. 
There  ever  is  a  form,  a  face 

Of  maiden  beauty  in  my  dreams, 
Speeding  before  me,  like  the  race 

To  ocean  of  the  mountain  streams — 
With  dancing  hair,  and  laughing  eyes, 
That  seem  to  mock  me  as  it  flies. 


MAGDALEN.  73 

VI. 

My  sword — it  slumbers  in  its  sheath ; 

My  hopes — their  starry  light  is  gone ; 
My  heart — the  fabled  clock  of  death 

Beats  with  the  same  low,  lingering  tone : 
And  this,  the  land  of  Magdalen, 

Seems  now  the  only  spot  on  earth 
Where  skies  are  blue  and  flowers  are  green ; 

And  here  I  'd  build  my  household  hearth, 
And  breathe  my  song  of  joy,  and  twine 
A  lovely  being's  name  with  mine. 

VII. 

In  vain  !  in  vain  !  the  sail  is  spread ; 

To  sea  !  to  sea !  my  task  is  there ; 
But  when  among  the  unmourn'd  dead 

They  lay  me,  and  the  ocean  air 
Brings  tidings  of  my  day  of  doom, 

May'st  thou  be  then,  as  now  thou  art, 
The  load-star  of  a  happy  home  ; 

In  smile  and  voice,  in  eye  and  heart 
The  same  as  thou  hast  ever  been, 
The  loved,  the  lovely  Magdalen. 


10 


FROM  THE  ITALIAN. 


EYES  with  the  same  blue  witchery  as  those 

Of  Psyche,  which  caught  Love  in  his  own  wiles  ; 

Lips  of  the  breath  and  hue  of  the  red  rose, 

That  move  but  with  kind  words,  and  sweetest  smiles ; 

A  power  of  motion  and  of  look,  whose  art 

Throws,  silently,  around  the  wildest  heart 

The  net  it  would  not  break  ;  a  form  which  vies 

With  that  the  Grecian  imaged  in  his  mind, 

And  gazed  upon  in  dreams,  and  sighed  to  find 

His  breathing  marble  could  not  realize. 

Know  ye  this  picture  ?  There  is  one  alone 
Can  call  its  penciled  lineaments  her  own. 
She  whom,  at  morning,  when  the  summer  air 
Wanders,  delighted,  o'er  her  face  of  flowers, 
And  lingers  in  the  ringlets  of  her  hair, 
We  deem  the  Hebe  of  Jove's  banquet  hours  ; 


FROM    THE    ITALIAN.  75 

She  who,  at  evening,  when  her  fingers  press 
The  harp,  and  wake  its  harmonies  divine, 
Seems  sweetest-voiced  and  loveliest  of  the  Nine, 
The  minstrel  of  the  bowers  of  happiness. 
She  whom  the  Graces  nurtured — at  her  birth, 
The  sea-born  Goddess,  and  the  Huntress  maid, 
Beings  whose  beauty  is  not  of  the  earth, 
Came  from  their  myrtle  home,  and  forest  shade, 
Blending  immortal  joy  with  mortal  mirth : 
And  Dian  said,  "  Fair  sister,  be  she  mine 
"  In  her  heart's  purity,  in  beauty  thine." 
The  smiling  infant  listened,  and  obeyed. 


WOMAN. 


WRITTEN    IN    THE    ALBUM    OF    AN    UNKNOWN    LADY. 


LADY,  although  we  have  not  met, 
And  may  not  meet,  beneath  the  sky ; 

And  whether  thine  are  eyes  of  jet, 

Gray,  or  dark  blue,  or  violet, 
Or  hazel — heaven  knows,  not  I ; 

Whether  around  thy  cheek  of  rose 

A  maiden's  glowing  locks  are  curled, 
And  to  some  thousand  kneeling  beaux, 
Thy  frown  is  cold  as  winter's  snows, 
Thy  smile  is  worth  a  world ; 


WOMAN.  77 

Or  whether,  past  youth's  joyous  strife, 
The  calm  of  thought  is  on  thy  brow, 

And  thou  art  in  thy  noon  of  life, 

Loving,  and  loved,  a  happy  wife, 
And  happier  mother  now, 

I  know  not — but  whate'er  thou  art, 

Whoe'er  thou  art,  were  mine  the  spell, 
To  call  Fate's  joys,  or  blunt  his  dart, 
There  should  not  be  one  hand  or  heart 
But  served  or  wished  thee  well. 

For  thou  art  Woman — with  that  word 
Life's  dearest  hopes  and  memories  come, 

Truth,  Beauty,  Love — in  her  adored, 

And  earth's  lost  Paradise  restored 
In  the  green  bower  of  home. 

What  is  man's  love  ?     His  vows  are  broke 
Even  while  his  parting  kiss  is  warm, — 

But  woman's  love  all  change  will  mock, 

And,  like  the  ivy  round  the  oak, 
Cling  closest  in  the  storm. 


78  WOMAN. 

And  well  the  Poet  at  her  shrine 

May  bend,  and  worship  while  he  wooes  ; 

To  him  she  is  a  thing  divine, 

The  inspiration  of  his  line, 
His  loved  one,  and  his  Muse. 

If  to  his  song  the  echo  rings 

Of  Fame — 'tis  Woman's  voice  he  hears ; 
If  ever  from  his  lyre's  proud  strings 
Flow  sounds,  like  rush  of  angel  wings, 
'Tis  that  she  listens  while  he  sings, 

With  blended  smiles  and  tears : 

Smiles, — tears, — whose  blest  and  blessing  power, 

Like  sun  and  dew  o'er  summer's  tree, 
Alone  keeps  green  through  Tune's  long  hour, 
That  frailer  thing  than  leaf  or  flower, 
A  Poet's  immortality. 

1824. 


A  POET'S  DAUGHTER. 


FOR  THE  ALBUM  OF  MISS  *  *  #,  AT  THE  REQUEST  OF 
HER  FATHER. 


"  A  LADY  asks  the  Minstrel's  rhyme." 
A  Lady  asks  ?     There  was  a  time 
When,  musical  as  play-bell's  chime 

To  wearied  boy, 
That  sound  would  summon  dreams  sublime 

Of  pride  and  joy. 


80  A  POET'S  DAUGHTER. 

But  now  the  spell  hath  lost  its  sway, 
Life's  first-born  fancies  first  decay, 
Gone  are  the  plumes  and  pennon's  gay 

Of  young  Romance ; 
There  linger  but  her  ruins  gray, 

And  broken  lance. 


'Tis  a  new  world — no  more  to  maid, 
Warrior  or  bard,  is  homage  paid  ; 
The  bay-tree's,  laurel's,  myrtle's  shade, 

Men's  thoughts  resign ; — 
Heaven  placed  us  here  to  vote  and  trade, 

Twin  tasks  divine ! 


"  Tis  youth,  'tis  beauty  asks, — the  green 

"And  growing  leaves  of  seventeen 

"  Are  round  her ;  and,  half  hid,  half  seen, 

"  A  violet  flower, 
"Nursed  by  the  virtues  she  hath  been 

"  From  childhood's  hour." 


A    POET'S    DAUGHTER.  81 

Blind  passion's  picture, — yet  for  this 
We  woo  the  life-long  bridal  kiss, 
And  blend  our  every  hope  of  bliss 

With  her's  we  love ; 
Unmindful  of  the  serpent's  hiss 

In  Eden's  grove. 


Beauty — the  fading  rainbow's  pride, 
Youth — 'twas  the  charm  of  her  who  died 
At  dawn,  and  by  her  coffin's  side 

A  grandsire  stands, 
Age-strengthened,  like  the  oak  storm-tried 

Of  mountain  lands. 


Youth's  coffin — hush  the  tale  it  tells, 
Be  silent,  memory's  funeral  bells  ! 
Lone  in  one  heart,  her  home,  it  dwells 

Untold  till  death, 
And  where  the  grave-mound  greenly  swells 

O'er  buried  faith. 

11 


82  A  POET'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  But  what  if  her's  are  rank  and  power, 
"  Armies  her  train,  a  throne  her  bower, 
"  A  kingdom's  gold  her  marriage  dower, 

"  Broad  seas  and  lands  ? 
"  What  if  from  bannered  hall  and  tower 

"  A  queen  commands  ?  " 


A  queen  ?     Earth's  regal  moons  have  set. 

Where  perished  Marie  Antoinette  ? 

Where's  Bordeaux's  mother?     Where  the  jet- 

Black  Haytian  dame  ? 
And  Lusitania's  coronet  ? 

And  Angouleme  ?   . 


Empires  to-day  are  upside  down, 
The  castle  kneels  before  the  town, 
The  monarch  fears  a  printer's  frown, 

A  brickbat's  range ; 
Give  me,  in  preference  to  a  crown, 

Five  shillings  change. 


A  POET'S  DAUGHTER.  83 

"  But  her  who  asks,  though  first  among 
"  The  good,  the  beautiful,  the  young, 
"  The  birthright  of  a  spell  more  strong 

"Than  these  have  brought  her; 
"  She  is  your  kinswoman  in  song, 

"  A  Poet's  daughter." 


A  Poet's  daughter?     Could  I  claim 
The  consanguinity  of  fame, 
Veins  of  my  intellectual  frame  ! 

Your  blood  would  glow 
Proudly  to  sing  that  gentlest  name 

Of  aught  below. 


A  Poet's  daughter — dearer  word 
Lip  hath  not  spoke  nor  listener  heard, 
Fit  theme  for  song  of  bee  and  bird 

From  morn  till  even, 
And  wind-harp  by  the  breathing  stirred 

Of  star-lit  heaven. 


84  A  POET'S  DAUGHTER. 

My  spirit's  wings  are  weak,  the  fire 

Poetic  comes  but  to  expire, 

Her  name  needs  not  my  humble  lyre 

To  bid  it  live  ; 
She  hath  already  from  her  sire 

All  bard  can  give. 


1831. 


CONNECTICUT. 


FROM    AN    UNPUBLISHED    POEM. 


"  The  woods  in  which  we  had  dwelt  pleasantly  rustled  their  green  leaves  in  the  song,  and 
our  streams  were  there  with  the  sound  of  all  their  waters." 

MONTROSE. 


still  her  gray  rocks  tower  above  the  sea 

That  crouches  at  their  feet,  a  conquered  wave  ; 

*Tis  a  rough  land  of  earth,  and  stone,  and  tree, 
Where  breathes  no  castled  lord  or  cabined  slave  ; 

Where  thoughts,  and  tongues,  and  hands,  are  bold 

and  free, 
And  friends  will  find  a  welcome,  foes  a  grave  ; 

And  where  none  kneel,  save  when  to  heaven  they 
pray, 

Nor  even  then,  unless  in  their  own  way. 


86  CONNECTICUT. 


Theirs  is  a  pure  republic,  wild,  yet  strong, 
A  "  fierce  democracie,"  where  all  are  true 

To  what  themselves  have  voted — right  or  wrong — 
And  to  their  laws  denominated  blue  ; 

(If  red,  they  might  to  Draco's  code  belong ;) 
A  vestal  state,  which  power  could  not  subdue, 

Nor  promise  win — like  her  own  eagle's  nest, 

Sacred — the  San  Marino  of  the  west. 


A  justice  of  the  peace,  for  the  time  being, 

They  bow  to,  but  may  turn  him  out  next  year ; 

They  reverence  their  priest,  but  disagreeing 
In  price  or  creed,  dismiss  him  without  fear ; 

They  have  a  natural  talent  for  foreseeing 

And  knowing  all  things ; — and  should  Park  appear 

From  his  long  tour  in  Africa,  to  show 

The  Niger's  source,  they  'd  meet  him  with — we 
know. 


CONNECTICUT.  87 


They  love  their  land,  because  it  is  their  own, 
And  scorn  to  give  aught  other  reason  why ; 

Would  shake  hands  with  a  king  upon  his  throne, 
And  think  it  kindness  to  his  majesty ; 

A  stubborn  race,  fearing  and  flattering  none. 
Such  are  they  nurtured,  such  they  live  and  die : 

All — but  a  few  apostates,  who  are  meddling 

With  merchandise,  pounds,  shillings,  pence  and 
peddling ; 


Or  wandering  through  the  southern  countries, 
teaching 

The  A.  B.  C.  from  Webster's  spelling-book; 
Gallant  and  godly,  making  love  and  preaching, 

And  gaining,  by  what  they  call  "  hook  and  crook," 
And  what  the  moralists  call  overreaching, 

A  decent  living.     The  Virginians  look 
Upon  them  with  as  favourable  eyes 
As  Gabriel  on  the  devil  in  paradise. 


88  CONNECTICUT. 


But  these  are  but  their  outcasts.     View  them  near 
At  home,  where  all  their  worth  and  pride  is  placed ; 

And  there  their  hospitable  fires  burn  clear, 

And  there  the  lowliest  farm-house  hearth  is  graced 

With  manly  hearts,  in  piety  sincere, 
Faithful  in  love,  in  honour  stern  and  chaste, 

In  friendship  warm  and  true,  in  danger  brave, 

Beloved  in  life,  and  sainted  in  the  grave. 


And  minds  have  there  been  nurtured,  whose  control 
Is  felt  even  in  their  nation's  destiny ; 

Men  who  swayed  senates  with  a  statesman's  soul, 
And  looked  on  armies  with  a  leader's  eye ; 

Names  that  adorn  and  dignify  the  scroll, 
Whose  leaves  contain  their  country's  history, 

And  tales  of  love  and  war — listen  to  one, 

Of  the  Green-Mountaineer — the  Stark  of  Benning- 
ton. 


CONNECTICUT.  89 


When  on  that  field  his  band  the  Hessians  fought, 
Briefly  he  spoke  before  the  fight  began — 

"  Soldiers  !  those  German  gentlemen  are  bought 
For  four  pounds  eight  and  seven  pence  per  man, 

By  England's  king — a  bargain,  as  is  thought. 

Are  we  worth  more  ?    Let 's  prove  it  now  we  can — 

For  we  must  beat  them,  boys,  ere  set  of  sun, 

OR  MARY  STARR'S  A  WIDOW." — It  was  done. 


Her's  are  not  Tempe's  nor  Arcadia's  spring, 
Nor  the  long  summer  of  Cathay  an  vales, 

The  vines,  the  flowers,  the  air,  the  skies,  that  fling 
Such  wild  enchantment  o'er  Boccaccio's  tales 

Of  Florence  and  the  Arno — yet  the  wing 
Of  life's  best  angel,  Health,  is  on  her  gales 

Through  sun  and  snow — and  in  the  autumn  time 

Earth  has  no  purer  and  no  lovelier  clime. 


90  CONNECTICUT. 


Her  clear,  warm  heaven  at  noon, — the  mist  that 
shrouds 

Her  twilight  hills, — her  cool  and  starry  eves, 
The  glorious  splendour  of  her  sunset  clouds, 

The  rainbow  beauty  of  her  forest  leaves, 
Come  o'er  the  eye,  in  solitude  and  crowds, 

Where'er  his  web  of  song  her  poet  weaves ; 
And  his  mind's  brightest  vision  but  displays 
The  autumn  scenery  of  his  boyhood's  days. 


And  when  you  dream  of  woman,  and  her  love ; 

Her  truth,  her  tenderness,  her  gentle  power ; 
The  maiden,  listening  in  the  moonlight  grove, 

The  mother  smiling  in  her  infant's  bower ; 
Forms,  features,  worshipped  while  we  breathe  or 
move, 

Be  by  some  spirit  of  your  dreaming  hour 
Borne,  like  Loretto's  chapel,  through  the  air 
To  the  green  land  I  sing,  then  wake,  you'll  find 
them  there. 


MUSIC. 


TO  A  BOY  OF  FOUR  YEARS  OLD,  ON  HEARING  HIM  PLAY 
ON  THE  HARP. 


SWEET  boy !  before  thy  lips  can  learn 
In  speech  thy  wishes  to  make  known, 

Are  "thoughts  that  breathe  and  words  that  burn" 
Heard  in  thy  music's  tone. 


Were  Genius  tasked  to  prove  the  might, 
The  magic  of  her  hidden  spell, 

She  well  might  name  thee  with  delight 
As  her  own  miracle. 


92  MUSIC. 

Who  that  hath  heard,  from  summer  trees, 
The  sweet  wild  song  of  summer  birds, 

When  morning  to  the  far-off  breeze 
WTiispers  her  bidding  words ; 


Or  listened  to  the  bird  of  night, 

The  minstrel  of  the  star-light  hours, 

Companion  of  the  fire-fly's  flight, 
Cool  dews,  and  closed  flowers ; 


But  deemed  that  spirits  of  the  air 

Had  left  their  native  homes  in  heaven, 

And  that  the  music  warbled  there 
To  earth  awhile  was  given  ? 


For  with  that  music  came  the  thought 
That  life's  young  purity  was  theirs, 

And  love,  all  artless,  and  untaught, 
Breathed  in  their  woodland  airs. 


MUSIC.  93 

And  when,  sweet  boy  !  thy  baby  fingers 
Wake  sounds  of  heaven's  own  harmony, 

How  welcome  is  the  thought  that  lingers 
Upon  thy  lyre  and  thee ! 


It  calls  up  visions  of  past  days, 
When  life  was  infancy  and  song 

To  us,  and  old  remembered  lays, 
Unheard,  unheeded  long ; 


Revive  in  joy  or  grief  within  us, 

Like  lost  friends  wakened  from  their  sleep, 
With  all  their  early  power  to  win  us 

Alike  to  smile  or  weep. 


And  when  we  gaze  upon  that  face, 
Blooming  in  innocence  and  truth, 

And  mark  its  dimpled  artlessness, 
Its  beauty  and  its  youth ; 


MUSIC. 

We  think  of  better  worlds  than  this, 
Of  other  beings  pure  as  thou, 

Who  breathe,  on  winds  of  Paradise, 
Music  as  thine  is  now. 


And  know  the  only  emblem  meet 
Of  that  pure  Faith  the  heart  adores, 

To  be  a  child  like  thee,  whose  feet 
Are  strangers  on  Life's  shores. 


ON    THE    DEATH    OF 


LIEUT.  WILLIAM  HOWARD  ALLEN, 8 


OF    THE    AMERICAN    NAVV. 


HE  hath  been  mourned  as  brave  men  mourn  the 

brave, 

And  wept  as  nations  weep  their  cherished  dead, 
With  bitter,  but  proud  tears,  and  o'er  his  head 
The  eternal  flowers  whose  root  is  in  the  grave, 
The  flowers  of  Fame,  are  beautiful  and  green ; 
And  by  his  grave's  side  pilgrim  feet  have  been, 
And  blessings,  pure  as  men  to  martyrs  give, 
Have  there  been  breathed  by  those  he  died  to  save. 


96        ON  THE  DEATH  OF  LIEUT.  ALLEN. 

— Pride  of  his  country's  banded  chivalry, 
His  fame  their  hope,  his  name  their  battle  cry ; 
He  lived  as  mothers  wish  their  sons  to  live, 
He  died  as  fathers  wish  their  sons  to  die. 

If  on  the  grief-worn  cheek  the  hues  of  bliss, 
Which  fade  when  all  we  love  is  in  the  tomb, 
Could  ever  know  on  earth  a  second  bloom, 
The  memory  of  a  gallant  death  like  his 
Would  call  them  into  being — but  the  few, 
Who  as  their  friend,  their  brother,  or  their  son, 
His  kind  warm  heart  and  gentle  spirit  knew, 
Had  long  lived,  hoped,  and  feared  for  him  alone ; 
His  voice  their  morning  music,  and  his  eye 
The  only  starlight  of  their  evening  sky, 
Till  even  the  sun  of  happiness  seemed  dim, 
And  life's  best  joys  were  sorrows  but  with  him ; 
And  when — the  burning  bullet  in  his  breast, 
He  dropped,  like  summer  fruit  from  off  the  bough, 
There  was  one  heart  that  knew  and  loved  him  best — 
It  was  a  mother's — and  is  broken  now. 


NOTES. 


(1)  P.  9. — ALNWICK  CASTLE,  Northumberlandshire,   a  seat  of  the 
Duke  of  Northumberland.     Written  in  October,  1822. 

From  him  who  once  his  standard  set. — Page  12. 

(2)  One  of  the  ancestors  of  the  Percy  family  was  an  Emperor  of  Con 
stantinople. 

Fought  for  King  George  at  Lexington. — Page  12. 

(3)  The  late  Duke.     He  commanded  a  detachment  of  the  British 
army,  in  the  affair  at  Lexington  and  Concord,  in  1775. 

From  royal  Berwick's  beach  of  sand. — Page  13. 
Berwick  was  formerly  a  Principality.     Richard  II.  was  styled  "King 
of  England,  France  and  Ireland,  and  Berwick-upon-Tweed." 

(4)  P.  16. — MARCO  BOZZARIS,  one  of  the  best  and  bravest  of  the  mo 
dern  Greek  Chieftains.     He  fell  in  a  night  attack  upon  the  Turkish 
Camp  at  Laspi,  the  site  of  the  ancient  Platsea,  August  20,   1823,  and 
expired  in  the  moment  of  victory. 

13 


98  NOTES. 

(5)  P.  32. — WYOMING. — The  allusions  in  the  following  stanzas  can 
be  understood  by  those  only  who  have  read  Campbell's  beautiful  poem, 
"  GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING  : "  but  who  has  not  read  it. 

(6)  P.  55. — "RED  JACKET"  appeared  originally  in  1828,  soon  after 
the  publication  of  Mr.  Cooper's  "  NOTIONS  OF  THE  AMERICANS." 

(7)  P.  70. — MAGDALEN. — Written  in  1823,  fora  love-stricken  young 
officer  on  his  way  to  Greece.    The  reader  will  have  the  kindness  to 
presume  that  he  died  there. 

(8)  P.  95. — Lieut.  ALLEN. — He  commanded  the  U.  S.  Sloop  of  War 
Alligator,  and  was  mortally  wounded  on  the  9th  of  Nov.  1822,  in  an 
action  with  pirates,  near  Matanzas,  in  the  Island  of  Cuba.     His  mo 
ther,  a  few  hours  after  hearing  of  his  death,  died — literally  of  a  broken 
heart. 


INDEX. 


Alnwick  Castle 9 

Marco  Bozzaris 16 

Burns             22 

Wyoming ,32 

On  the  Death  of  Joseph  Rodman  Drake 37 

Twilight            40 

Psalm  CXXXVII 43 

To  **** 46 

The  Field  of  the  Grounded  Arms 48 

Red  Jacket 55 

Love 62 

A  Sketch 65 

Domestic  Happiness 67 

Magdalen 70 

From  the  Italian            .  •     .              72 

Woman 76 

A  Poet's  Daughter        .        .  ' 79 

Connecticut 85 

Music 91 

On  the  Death  of  Lieut.  Allen 95 


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